


I Went To The Crossroad (fell down on my knees)

by Pistol



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:02:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22040932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pistol/pseuds/Pistol
Summary: Maryann Dixon dies in a burst of flames on the celling of the house their father built. Daryl doesn't remember it, but Merle does.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Glenn Rhee
Comments: 14
Kudos: 62





	I Went To The Crossroad (fell down on my knees)

**Author's Note:**

> For Zoronoa, who's art makes people feel. The art, like me, belongs to her.

  


_I went to the crossroad, fell down on my knees  
I went to the crossroad, fell down on my knees  
Asked the Lord above "Have mercy, now save poor Bob, if you please"_  
-Robert Johnson's _Cross Road Blues_

~~~~

Maryann Dixon dies in a burst of flames on the celling of the house their father built. Daryl doesn't remember it, but Merle does. 

Merle, sixteen and mad at the world in ways Daryl can only pretend to understand, doesn't let him forget it either.

"I'm the one who got ya the fuck outta that house before it burned down." Merle drawls with a snarl disguised as a smile. "You owe your big brother for savin' your worthless' life, boy, and don't you ever forget it."

In the corner of the motel their dad is still snoring; one hand wrapped around a mostly empty bottle of whiskey and the other around a scatter gun.

\---

  


There's a nest of vamps in Oregon.

Merle comes back from the hunt, but their dad doesn't.

Daryl doesn't ask, and Merle doesn't bother to act like he cares.

"It's past time you start earnin' your keep," Merle tells him as Daryl stitches up his side. "Gotta help keep ol' Merle safe, the way he's always kept you safe," Merle hisses as Daryl tugs a new stitch. "Call Dale later. He'll probably wanna know."

Daryl grunts an affirmative and Merle gives him a steady look before drinking deeply from his bottle of Wild Turkey. It's hardly a surprise when he starts retelling the story of the night their mother died.

Merle's asleep before he gets to the part where he saved Daryl, but it doesn't matter. Daryl knows the story. More importantly he knows what he owes Merle.

When he calls Dale, Daryl's voice breaks and he finds himself scrubbing the back of his hand over his eyes. 

"You know, there's always a place for you he-"

Daryl glances over to where Merle's laying, still asleep, and hangs up before Dale can finish another familiar story.

\---

  


In Georgia Merle's still drunk enough he turns his back on a djinn without double checking that it wouldn't be getting back up.

The djinn gets up. Merle goes down.

By the time Daryl can kill his way to Merle, he's is already glassy-eyed and still on the floor.

Running on instinct and fear his hands fumble for his phone, punching in Dale's speed dial.

It only rings once.

_"Daryl?"_ Dale's voice is hurried, anxious. _"Daryl! You okay?"_

He isn't. But Dale already knows this, spilling his reassuring nonsense over the line.

"Merle's not movin'." 

There's a deep sigh and the sound of a computer chiming to life in the background. 

_"I'm tracking your cell right now,"_ Dale tells him needlessly. "_It's gonna be okay. I'm on my way, son."_

\---

  


Daryl says he's going out for a drink. Dale doesn't believe him in the slightest but he's smart enough to let him go.

In the truck he hacks up Merle's ID and puts together the rest of the hoo-doo easy enough. It takes longer to find an unpaved crossroads, but Daryl finds that too.

He's not sure what he expected to come crawling out of the night, but it isn't a fresh faced kid who looks like he belongs on a college campus. 

Well, he'd belong if you could ignore the pitch black eyes and the smell of sulfur hanging faintly in the air. 

The demon stands there; staring at Daryl and making his fingers itch for his crossbow. 

"I wanna make a deal."

Unnatural eyes blink slowly at him. "No, man, you really _don't_."

"Listen here, hellspawn-"

"Glenn. My name's _Glenn_."

"You think I give a shi-"

"I know you don't give a shit," Glenn moves slowly, walking from the grass to stand across from Daryl on the dusty road. "Whether you want to believe it or not, it _is_ my name." He continues to stare, his hands tucked loosely into his pockets. "He's not worth it."

"He's my brother!" 

"He's a _monster_. Even by our standards, which should really say something. And you're..." Glenn smirks, but it's more sad than mocking which only manages to boils Daryl's blood. "One might go so far to say you're a righteous man, Daryl Dixon."

"Ain't nothin' righteous about anyone on this road."

Glenn opens his mouth to speak, but Daryl cuts him off. "Are we gonna make a fuckin' deal, or am I gonna have to gank your demon ass and redial until I get someone who will?"

"What would Dale sa-"

"Dale ain't here. Merle ain't his kin and he ain't my daddy. He don't get no say in what I do or don't do." Daryl narrows his eyes, stepping forward. "Now. Do we have ourselves a deal, or should I bust out the Latin?"

"Fine," Glenn tugs at his faded baseball cap, looking oddly vulnerable, maybe even tired. "If that's what you want. I'll give you back Merle and you'll get a year before I collect on your soul."

"Ten years. I ain't some rube you can con-"

"One year. You aren't exactly on our good list, and _no one_ wants your monste-"

"You shut the hell up!" Daryl's hands clench at his side till he can feel his jagged nails breaking the skin of his palm. "That's my _brother_ you're talkin' about."

"Then what happened to that woman who was dating that werewolf?Jim, I think his name was? You remember, you liked her, liked how she stood up to Merle and how she called you _honey_ when sh-"

"_Stop._"

"Rough estimate - how many dead women do you think show up in the towns you hunt in?"

"They're demons. Possessed. Merle's a lot of things, but he ain't..." Daryl squares his jaw, meeting Glenn's eyes despite the sour turn in his stomach. "They're _demons_."

"Is that what he tells you?" Glenn hums, the sound grating at Daryl's last nerve. "You've been a hunter all your life, Daryl. Where's the sulfur? Where's the-"

"Five years," Daryl tries to cross his arms but ends up mostly wrapping them around himself. His voice sounds weak to his own ears, helpless in a way that will emb- that _would have_ embarrassed Merle.

"One year."

"Fine," It hits him suddenly how much it doesn't matter in the long run. Daryl was ever stupid enough to think he'd live to a ripe old age. "You got yourself a deal."

Dark eyes swirl as Glenn nods, stepping closer until he has to cant his head to look Daryl in the eyes. 

"You know what happens next?"

Daryl looks away, only for a second before nodding stiffly.

"It probably doesn't mean much to you, but I'm-"

Daryl growls, "Shut up, hellspawn," and fists his hands in Glenn's shirt, dragging him forward hard enough for their teeth knock together and Daryl's dry lips to crack from the force. 

He's not stupid enough to look away, so he catches the black of Glenn's eyes flickering into white and brown before he's shoving Glenn away. He scrubs at his lips with the back of his palm, glaring until Glenn blinks his eyes back to black. 

There's a smear of blood on Glenn's lips, Daryl's blood, red and bright.

"He'll be waiting for you," A pink tongue slips out of Glenn's mouth, stealing away the red stain while Glenn hums absently.

"That's it?"

"That's it," The way Glenn says it makes it sound like _he's_ the one who just sold his soul at blue light special prices. 

For a second Daryl is tempted to ask, but then he remembers that Merle's cold body won't be so cold for much longer.  
Not to mention Dale's gonna throw a fit and probably try to shoot Merle if he reanimates in his RV. Daryl turns, taking off towards his rusted out '81 Sierra Grande parked off the side of the road. 

It's easier than it should be to forget all about the demon who owns his soul and his own fast-approaching death.

\---

  


Merle doesn't say thank you to Daryl for selling his soul, and Daryl finds he doesn't expect it.

Dale on the other hand slams the cabinets and burns their dinner.

"You did the right thing," Merle allows as he rubs his hand over his neck, tracing the place a hole used to be. "I'm all you have. Ain't no one else gonna ever care about you like old Merle."

\---

  


"Do you understand what you've done? What this _means_?"__

Daryl shrugs, pulling at his bow string out to test its strength.

"He's wrong, you know. You have _me_. And you-"

"Pass the wax," Daryl doesn't look up, but after a pause Dale sighs, handing him the wax.

They leave in the morning before Dale wakes up. Merle helps himself to two boxes of Dale's ammo and one of his rifles. 

Daryl debates leaving a note, but can't think of anything he'd want to say that he could leave sitting out in plain sight.

\---

  


They're in Florida when a kitsune takes tires to tear a strip out of Daryl's neck.

Merle's screaming somewhere in the background, too sloppy and slow from drink to be of any use. 

The situation sets in with a vivid clarity. One of his arms is pinned and the other is broken beyond use. Nothing is going to stop the claws slashing down at neck. He's done his best, but he's out of moves. Daryl closes his eyes, more from exhaustion than anything else, and waits.

And waits. 

In the background Merle is still screaming, but there's a sticky mist that hits Daryl's face smelling like sulfur and tasting like pennies.

When he opens his eyes there are swirling black eyes watching him over the shoulder of the now dead kitsune; impaled on a hand that's been shoved through her chest.

"You're better than this," Glenn snaps as he yanks his arm out and letting the body slide to the floor in a wet thud. "Stop giving up and start _fighting_. I thought you Dixon brothers were supposed to be impressive or something."

On the other side of the room Merle starts screaming about demons and slurring out butchered Latin. 

Glenn ignores him, holding Daryl's gaze as he shakes the excess blood off his hand. "And maybe try to teach your idiot brother the correct way to do an exorcism. He's not going to be any good to you if he's asking to _impregnate_ a demon from its _large tree_."

Glenn disappears in the blink of an eye, but the smell of sulfur lingers on Daryl clothes long after he convinces Merle that any demons he saw were the result of too much whiskey.

\---

  
In their hotel room, Daryl returns to find a bright yellow book loudly proclaiming _Latin for Dummies_, sitting on the dresser.

Daryl hides it and his smile before Merle can see either of them.

\---

  
In Minnesota, Daryl isn't sitting alone anymore when the waitress drops off his burger. She looks over Glenn, happily building a tower with the creamers, and sighs at the prospect of more work.

"Can I get ya something?" the waitress asks with a raised eyebrow at Glenn’s handiwork.

Glenn snaps his head up; human colored eyes wide and surprised as a blush spreads across his cheeks. 

Daryl resists the urge to call bullshit, but just barely.

"Um..." Glenn folds his hands over the pile of creamers like it might hide them from anyone's notice. 

"Maybe some coffee to go with your art?" she drawls.

"Thanks, but no thanks," Glenn hunches in on himself, smiles back apologetically. "Um, do you have cherries?"

"No real ones but we got maraschino cherries."

"Could I get some in a coke?"

"Aren't you a little old to be ordering Shirley Temples?"

"They're good," Glenn insists, looking not at all like something that crawled out of the fiery pits of hell.

The waitress chuckles before walking away, managing to looking a decade younger and much less weary. 

"You're a crazy little shit, ain't ya?" Daryl asks around his burger.

"Right, because you hunters are just _so_ sane," Black eyes flash briefly at Daryl along with a smirk, but any further banter or veiled threats are stalled by the arrival of a large glass that holds more cherries than it does soda.

The waitress winks and Glenn beams up at her until she rolls her eyes.

"Name's Cindy," She smiles at Daryl like she knows a secret as she refills his coffee cup. "Y'all call out if you need anything." 

Daryl narrows his eyes, sizing her up. "Christ-"

"Thanks Cindy," Glenn interrupts quickly. His smile is forced but Cindy only shrugs and walks away. 

"You're an idiot," Glenn chides him while stealing his spoon. "She was _flirting_ with you, she's not a demon."

"She was lookin' at me funny."

Glenn rolls his eyes up, making a strangled sound. "And how were you planning to explain to her why my eyes got decidedly less human? Hmmm?"

"I'd figure something out." 

Glenn snorts, fishing out a cherry. He pulls the stem off, before tossing the cherry in the air and trying and failing to catch it in his mouth.

"No wonder there's so many morons selling their fuckin' souls to y'all. You act like a choir boy more than ya act like hellspawn." 

"Demon. Not hellspawn. There _is_ a difference, you know," Glenn mutters, chasing a cherry with his spoon before trapping it and skipping the theatrics just eating it. "And you realize that makes _you_ a moron, right?"

"Never claimed ta be smart."

Glenn shrugs, already chasing his next victim through a maze of ice. "I never claimed to be good."

There's nothing to say to that, so Daryl drinks three more cups of coffee and watches Cindy dote on Glenn and bring him a bowl of cherries when his are all gone.

When the bill comes, Daryl gets a wink and only ends up being charged for his burger despite Glenn's attempts to eat his weight in cherries.

Glenn tosses a fifty on the table as they leave.

"Do I wanna know where that money come from?"

Glenn snorts. "Like you're one to talk. I've seen your credit cards, _Mr. Skynyrd._"

As Daryl unlocks his truck, Glenn leans against the side, watching the sky with calm eyes.

"Why do you keep showin' up?" It's too late to take the words back, they're already hanging in the air between them like the traces of sulfur and the chemical smell of Glenn's cherries.

"Why do you let me?"

\---

  
Like an unwelcome calvary, Glenn flickers in at the last moment to rip the heads off of two vamps that Merle was supposed to be dealing with. He arrives just in time to prevent Daryl from becoming their midnight snack.

Angry black eyes and a face splattered in blood stare at Daryl like this is all somehow _his_ fault.

"Get yer panties outta their twist," Daryl can't bring himself to say thank you, so he says the next most important thing. "Merle?" 

"Still unconscious in your motel room." Glenn snaps back prissily. "He slept through his alarm. Probably a side effect from the four month bender he's been on."

Daryl shrugs Glenn off. Shrugs off the nagging feeling growing in his gut.

"This is the third time this month h-"

"Don't," Daryl warns. "He's my _brother._"

Glenn clenches his jaw, but wisely says nothing. 

By the time Daryl is done prying his crossbow out of a headless vampire's hands, Glenn's already gone.

\---

  
Daryl doesn't forget what Glenn is; the same way he doesn't forget to clean his weapons or the words he needs to banish a demon.

Somehow, he doesn't use his weapons or his words against Glenn. It's okay, Daryl supposes, because he's using Glenn as the backup Merle's getting too old, too lazy, and too drunk to be. 

It's not something Merle or his Pa would understand, but it keeps Daryl alive, and it seems like that should be enough.

Hopefully.

Now and then Daryl finds he almost believes the smoke and mirrors that is the human Glenn constantly plays. When it happens he's more than tempted to stick Ruby's knife in Glenn and watch him die.

Now and then when Glenn shows up to save his ass, Daryl wonders if the terrifying rage Glenn directs at the monster of the week is because they're maybe becoming something like friends. It's tempting afterwards, when Glenn hovers, complaining about how stupid human healing rates are, to say a few sentences in Latin and send Glenn packing.

To send trouble packing. Because that's all this can be.

Lately the scent of sulfur has become as familiar and safe to Daryl as the smell of gun oil or whiskey. That's how Daryl knows something needs to be done. 

When Daryl walks back into the motel room to find Merle passed out on the other bed, he's tempted to wake him and tell him that the helpful Asian demon he saw that one time wasn't a hallucination after all. 

Instead, Daryl ends up cleaning his wounds and taking a shower instead.

Banishing Glenn can wait a bit longer.

\---

  
Merle is supposed to meet him at the abandoned O'Donnell farm at midnight.

By thirty past midnight, Daryl's still alone. The ghouls find him.

There's four of them and one of him, but in the end Daryl's the last one standing. 

He collapses to the floor, wiping a hand over his head and trying to catch his breath when he notices the scent of sulfur and.. cherries? 

Sure enough, across from the barn and sitting on a hay bale, Glenn is calmly eating cherries from a jar.

"Ya couldn't have helped?!" Daryl snaps.

Glenn snorts, waving Daryl off with pink stained fingers. "You had it covered."

"There were four of them!"

"Yet, here you are, victorious!" Glenn smiles widely at him. "Seriously, you're a badass, man. Like, Duke Nukem levels of badassery." 

"Who the _fuck_ is that?"

Glenn makes a pained noise, burying his head in his hands.

\---

  
"Are we pretending she was a demon too?"

Daryl flinches at the sudden sound, turning to find Glenn standing over his shoulder and looking down at the woman sprawled out on the floor.

"Someone really did a number on her."

"Shut up." 

"She has two kids, you know. Louis and Eliza. Her husb-"

"_Shut the fuck up!_" Daryl knows all about Miranda Morales. He can vividly remembers bringing Merle to meet her and can still recall the kind look she gave him before making him promise to be careful on his hunt.

What's worse, he can remember Merle whistling, deep and low when they left the Morales house. “Not bad at all,” Merle had said.

Glenn listens, and part of Daryl wishes he'd keep talking. Keep pushing. Wishes he'd make himself the target Daryl so desperately needs.

Instead Glenn crouches down next to him, his leg brushing against Daryl's.

"Why the fuck are you even following me? I still got time left on my contract."

Glenn says nothing. After a moment Daryl reaches out to close Miranda's eyes - already more brown than white - and tugging his jacket so it covers more of her naked body. 

"You just gettin' your kicks stalkin' me 'fore I die?" 

Glenn looks up at him, eyes sharp and unforgiving in a way that has nothing to do with their demonic black. 

Daryl looks away first.

"Thought you demons got off on this kinda shit."

"Right, 'cause just like humans, all demons are exactly the same."

"Whatever."

"She's a dead psychic with bruises on her neck that look about the same size as your brother's fingers," Glenn point out quietly. "You're a hunter. You know better than anyone that the world isn't as black and white as people want it to be; but there _are_ times when it is. One plus one doesn't always have to equal werewolf. Sometimes it just equals a deeply disturbed human."

"_Christo!_" Daryl growls. 

Next to him, Glenn hisses and jerks away from him. He's gone before Daryl can decide if he wants to hit him or if he wants to apologize to him.

\---

  
At the motel there's yelling and Daryl gets a fresh black eye.

"You just lost the only person who _ever_ gave two shits about you!" Merle screams before he leaves. 

Daryl flinches at the sound of the door slamming, arms already wrapped around his body like it might keep the reality from reaching him.

He drinks until his eye doesn't hurt and then drinks until nothing hurts. When Daryl reaches his goal he sets a new one, and drinks until he isn't tempted to call Glenn's name - just to see if there's anyone left in the world besides his dad's old hunting pal who'll answer when he calls.

His pride keeps him from making a fool of himself, despite this Daryl wakes up tucked into his bed with a bottle of water and a some Tylenol sitting on the side table. 

Glenn's sitting on the other bed, _Merle's_ bed, watching baseball on the shitty little TV and pretending not to watch Daryl as he takes the pills and drain the bottle of water.

"Can't ya just zap my headache away?"

Glenn snorts, finally turning to look at Daryl, his pitch black eyes managing to look amused. "What do I look like to you, an angel?" 

Daryl squints over at Glenn and decides to change the subject. "Baseball?" 

Glenn's smile fades a little around the edges. "Yeah. You like it?" There's something hopeful there, something that stops Daryl from saying just how boring and pointless he thinks it is.

"I don't hate it."

Glenn turns back to the tv with a tight expression. "I played for a while," His voice is quiet, almost hesitant, but there's a hint of pride there. "Professionally." 

"Did ya, now? I wasn't aware hell had itself a team."

Glenn laughs. "Who do you think owns the Dodgers?"

\---

  
Daryl makes it a little past four hours after Glenn leaves before he's booting up his laptop.

The words 'Glenn' and 'Professional Baseball' drag up about a million and a half results, but six pages in Daryl stops scrolling.

It's a promotional picture from a team from the mid-80's, but it's Glenn, looking as young as he does now. He's smiling brightly at the camera with a bat resting on his shoulder. The familiar, if much newer cap sitting proudly on his head. 

"Atlanta Braves, huh?" 

The empty room offers no response.

\---

  
Merle doesn't come back for Daryl or his bike.

Maybe it's pathetic, but Daryl refuses to leave it to rust in the parking lot of a charge-by-the-hour motel. 

Daryl takes what he needs: weapons, journal, and a change of clothes... what little is left over gets thrown in the bed of the truck for whoever might find it next. 

It's terrifying to pull out of the parking lot on Merel’s bike with so much less than he started with. 

But under the terror, it's also a bit freeing.

\---

  
Daryl's on the I-10 tearing through the middle of nowhere when arms wrap around his waist and an unnaturally warm presence presses against his back.

This bike roars, the desert keeps passing, and Daryl doesn't flinch.

"You know, most people try to fight their contract," Glenn yells over the wind.

"Did you?" Daryl shouts back. "Is that what you got for your soul? A few years in the pros?"

Glenn's hands tighten around his waist. "I didn't sell my soul for baseball, Daryl. I sold it for... Look, it doesn't matter what I sold it for."

Daryl pretends he can't hear him. Pretends that his heart didn't speed up at the first hint of sulfur on the wind or when Glenn's arms tightened around him. He pretends that physical contact, even from a demon who holds the deed to his soul, isn't welcomed more than Daryl can figure out how say. 

Daryl pretends a lot lately. He's getting good at it.

"You know, I never gave you any stipulations about negative recourse. If you tried to break our contract, if something were to happen to me..." Glenn trails off, his warm breath tickling Daryl's ear and making him tempted to close his eyes despite the busy stretch of road.

Glenn doesn't speak after that, and Daryl does his best to not think about what his brother is doing without him there to reign him in. He doesn't think about how much of his brother he was never able to reign in. He doesn't think about how much he chose not to see.

Glenn's arms stay warm and heavy around his waist, and if Glenn's fingers sprawl out more than they should, if they rub up and down over his stomach, it's easy to pretend it's just an effect of the wind.

When the sun's down and his eyes are threatening to close with or without his okay he pulls into the first motel they come across. The arms around his waist disappear and Daryl pointedly doesn't look to see if Glenn's gone or just dismounted.

He signs his name _John Cash_ on the sign in books and asks for two beds out of habit.

It only sinks it that he doesn't need them when he slips the key into the door. He's tempted to go back to change it when Glenn steps out of the shadows and stops him with a hand on his wrist.

"You know, even demons need their rest."

It's a lie, but it's easier to swallow than the thought of sleeping alone in a strange room after spending his whole life surrounded by the sounds of his brother and his pa.

Daryl shrugs, pretending he doesn't care either way. "Fine. But you're payin' half."

\---

  
There are three empty jars of maraschino cherries and a pink fingered demon laying across Daryl's bed like a lazy cat when he returns from the store. He throws the beer on the table and picks up one of the jars,rolling it over in his hands in disgust. "You even drank the juice?"

"Best part," Glenn assures him, stretching out and rearranging himself to be covered by the beam of early morning sunlight breaking through the blinds.

Daryl tears his eyes away, focusing on other things, safer things - like the jar in his hand. Something on the label catches his eye. He turns the jar over, reading the ingredients carefully before watching Glenn.

"You feelin' all right, Little League?"

Glenn groans dramatically, "I played pro. _Pro._" He looks Daryl over before shaking his head. "I swear, you hunters are all brain damaged from being thrown into walls."

Daryl ignores the comment, moving closer to hand the jar to Glenn. "There's salt in here."

Glenn frowns, blinking up at Daryl and the jar in confusion. "And..?"

"You're a _demon_."

"I never would have guessed that on my own." Glenn rolls onto his side, supporting his head in his hand. "You are aware that salt is in a ton of things, including the human body, right?" Glenn's tone is mocking and despite his best efforts Daryl feels his face turn red.

"Salt hurts demons."

"Yes, yes it does. And fire _bad_."

"_Glenn._" Daryl growls in warning.

Glenn rolls his eyes. "Look, you can't go telling any of your psychotic hunter friends, but it's not the salt that hurts us, okay?"

Daryl raises a brow expectantly and Glenn huffs, eyes looking away from his.

"It's the _intent._ Just like holy water isn't about the water or the holy. Anyone from any belief or lack thereof could fuck us up with even sewer water if they believed hard enough that it would burn us."

"You shittin' me?"

"No. It's got nothing to do with any god or any blessing. It's just..." Glenn waves his hands in frustration, "it's like a fail safe designed to protect humans like you from things like me. The world just likes you guys better, and when you're threatened - if you want to believe it bad enough, it'll protect you."

Daryl takes a moment, before frowning. "So what about crosses?"

"They, much like all the other holy symbols across the globe, tend to be made of naturally occurring metals or wood." Glenn scowls, "Come on, you guys have to know this on _some_ basic level, I mean, when's the last time you saw a hunter wielding a plastic cross?"

"Never," Daryl admits.

Glenn nods. "See? What most humans and hunters don't get is that they aren't as helpless as they think they are. If they want it bad enough, just about anything can be used as a weapon against us."

Daryl rolls that thought over, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. At his back, the sides of Glenn's legs are a warm and solid presence. Safe in a way a demon at his back should never be.

"If that's true, why don't hunters know this?"

"You _know_ why," Glenn's voice is quiet, tired, and when Daryl turns, there's a self-deprecating smile on Glenn's face.

"Because only demons know," Daryl hazards. "and what reason would a demon have to share information this dangerous to them?"

"Ding, ding, ding!" Glenn mutters with a tight expression. "Give the hunter a prize."

They don't talk after that. Glenn stays sprawled on on Daryl's bed like it's his, and Daryl puts on the radio while he cleans his weapons at the table.

Just as he's thinking about getting some sleep, Daryl looks up to find Glenn gone. 

When he crawls under the covers his bed is still warm from Glenn's presence, but it's just another thing Daryl pretends not to notice.

\---

  
Daryl walks into a bar, and it feels like a bad joke long before the whole bar turns around and stares at him with black eyes.

The room reeks of sulfur as a dozen pairs of black eyes watch him in amusement while it sets in just how fucked he is. 

Right before the first demon moves to stand, Daryl feels a terrible laughter growing in his chest. The heavy scent of sulfur oozing from the demons in the bar_doesn't_ smell familiar and the inky void in their eyes _don't_ feel safe. 

He doesn't have time to have the noisy break down over the fucked up path his life has taken though, because he's quickly pushed into fighting tooth and nail for his life.

Soon enough he feels the minute shift in the air he's starting to recognize and a warmth at his back. A familiar scent reaches him, more warmth and spice than sweat and rotten eggs. 

When he looks back swirling black eyes are waiting for him, nervous and alert, but still deeply amused.

"Need a hand there, Duke?"

Daryl ignores him, turning back just in time to plunge Ruby's stolen knife into the chest of the demon lunging towards him. He jerks the knife out of the body with a grunt.

"You gonna take 'em all on for me, Little League?"

Glenn laughs, and Daryl wishes for a moment he hadn't said anything, because Glenn's laugh sounds scared and Daryl isn't sure how to make it better. He isn't sure if he should want too.

"We got this," Daryl tries in lieu of a look or a touch his sanity can't afford in a life or death situation. "Just like them Raw Heads in Texas, yeah?"

"I'm stronger than Raw Heads." Glenn mutters. He doesn't say that he's next to useless against his own kind. He doesn't mention all the close call they had while facing half the number of demons they're fighting today.

Daryl doesn't have anything to add, so he steps back till their backs are touching. For a moment he thinks he feels Glenn's head lean back to rest briefly against his before he feels the jerk of Glenn's back as he lashes out or moves to defend himself.

"You don't have to be here," Daryl points out needlessly.

Glenn laughs at him, and Daryl can feel the vibration tickling through his spine as he stabs his knife into the neck of the nearest demon.

\---

  
They live, and when Daryl staggers out to his bike Glenn slides in behind him without waiting for an invitation or even an okay.

It's not a metaphor, but maybe it should be.

Daryl kickstarts the bike and lets Glenn wrap his arms around him on the ride back to the motel.

In the room Glenn shoves him down to sit on the bed and demands Daryl's shirt be removed. He doesn't wait to see if Daryl listens, already moving to tear through Daryl's pack only to resurfacing with a sewing kit, rubbing alcohol, and a bottle of cheap whiskey that he hands to Daryl.

"For the pain," Glenn murmurs before grabbing a towel and dousing it with the alcohol and wiping it through the open wound on Daryl's side.

It's the first time someone other than Dale has patched Daryl up. Not sure what to do with himself, his limbs, or the silence Daryl drinks and pretends to watch TV.

"You always show up when shit hits the fan." 

"Only when you need me. You're good, but there's a reason _smart_ hunters work in pairs."

Daryl's body is warm, already numbing out the pain in his side. "I used to work with Merle. But you used to show up back then too."

"Yeah, well, I'm guessing you don't want to hear anything I have to say on the subject of Merle." There's a quiet rage in Glenn's voice when he says Merle's name that brings out an anger in Daryl.

"He's my brother. My family." Daryl takes a drink, eyes still glued to the overly-dramatic showdown on the tv screen. "How do you know I need you, anyhow? Do you have some crossroads power where you can spy on me?"

The fingers on Daryl's side falter before resuming their familiar tug and jab with the needle. 

"I can listen in to the souls I've bargained for," Glenn says quietly. "I can hear you anywhere you might be on this plane of existence. When your heart beat acts up, I pop in to check to see if you're okay."

"So you're listenin' for me all the time?"

Glenn clears his throat, and doesn't meet his eyes. "I'm just protecting my investment."

"That's what this is, then?"

Glenn doesn't say anything more, and on the TV the hero burst in, just in time to save the day and get the girl.

\---

  
Four states and two weeks later Daryl works up the courage to ask.

It takes a decent amount of whiskey.

"What will happen?"

Glenn looks up in confusion briefly before returning his attention to the jar of cherries on the table. "You mean when the cherries are all gone? Well, I'm hoping you'll just buy me more. If not, I'll steal them." Glenn plucks another cheery from the jar, popping it in his mouth with a smirk.

"No. When I die. What happens?"

Daryl watches Glenn swallow roughly as his eyes flicker back and forth between human and demon.

"You know what happens."

"I know the gist of it, sure. My soul becomes yours and I die. But what _happens_ when my time's up?"

Glenn looks down, shoving the jar away and picking at his thumb nail. "When your time is up, they'll send hellhounds to collect you."

"Can they be killed?"

Glenn's eyes close and he hangs his head. "I can't tell y-"

"And I highly doubt you were supposed ta be acting like my guardian angel, either. So. _Can they be killed?_"

Glenn looks up, injured and vulnerable in a way Daryl's stopped being surprised by but has not been able to ignore.

"Everything can be killed."

"So I can kill 'em."

"They send a pack."

"So I'll kill the pack."

Glenn bites his lip, looking away and Daryl feels his shoulders sag. 

"Worse than that time you showed up late in New York?"

Glenn won't meet his eyes, and that's answer enough.

"How long do I have left?" 

"You know how lo-"

Daryl slams his fist down on the table, knocking over the jar and spilling a puddle sticky red juice between them. "You took my fuckin' soul, so I'd hope you could find the balls to answer my question." 

"Eight days," Glenn squares his shoulders, meeting Daryl's eyes with swirling black voids. "Three hours. Twenty-seven minutes." He smirks. "Would you like to know how many seconds you have left, Daryl?"

Daryl can't find it in himself care about how many second he has. "Will you be there?" he asks. "When it happens."

Glenn's smug facade falters, and Daryl's chest tightens.

He can't press their backs together this time and assure Glenn they'll get through it. He's not even sure what he'd be assuring Glenn they'd get though. 

But there's no excuses he can make to touch Glenn, and there's too little time left in his life to do something as stupid as touch Glenn just for the sake of touching him.

"Will it hurt?" Daryl asks.

"Don't do t-"

"Will it hurt?"

Glenn sighs, dipping his fingers through the cherry juice and slowly dragging them out. He leaves four angry red lines of juice on the table in the wake of his fingers. "A lot."

"And then?"

"Then you die, and from there it gets worse."

Daryl takes a deep breath, eyes fixed on the red slashes on the table. "Get out," he says evenly. "Don't come back."

\---

  
He's tempted, more than once to call out for help. He's sure, more than once that he can't come out of a fight alive, but he does.

Daryl lives, keeps living despite there being no shift in the air. No smell of sulfur. No one there to patch him up after a fight. No empty jars littering every flat surface in his motel. 

Sometimes, at night Daryl can convince himself it doesn't hurt so much to be alone.

\---

  
There are four days left in Daryl's life and there are easily six times as many demons trying to break into the police department they're trapped in.

It’s only him and three civilians left alive by the time he gets the final salt line drawn to hold back the tide. But it's not enough. There's still two demons, very much alive and kicking, inside the salt lines and endless more waiting to get in. It doesn’t help that Ruby's knife is still stuck in a body on the other side of the room.

Daryl's fucked, and there's still no shift in the air, no warmth at his back, and the only thing Daryl smells is the stomach-turning stench of sulfur.

At his side the Sheriff, Grimes, is shielding his family behind him while firing off useless rounds into the demons. His wife is nearly catatonic and his kid is shaking as they watch the bodies keep moving despite Grimes' well aimed efforts. 

The kid's young. Older than he was when he saw his first demon, but still painfully young in Daryl's eyes.

He doesn't take time to think about what a stupid idea it is, he just curses and sucks it up before he yells out a name he wishes he could bring himself to forget. 

Daryl can smell Glenn before he can see him. Shock that Glenn even showed makes his stomach twist.

Glenn comes up behind the demons quickly, and he them by the throat before he lifts them in the air with a grunt. They struggle, kicking and flailing before black smoke pours out of their mouths in an attempt to escape. Glenn swears, squeezing his eyes shut until the clouds of smoke still in midair. 

Glenn's face breaks out in a sweat and across the room Grimes starts a quiet prayer that has Glenn faltering; the black smoke curling away from him before Daryl finds himself screaming for Grimes to shut up. 

The whole room falls silent as Glenn slowly regains control, the smoke stills, trapped in place before slowly pouring back into its hosts. 

"Hey dumbass, maybe you put a lid on that shit until your life _isn't_ resting in my hands?" Glenn grinds out. He turns, his head looking pointedly at Daryl. "Any time now, Daryl."

Daryl nods, crossing the room quickly to get to the body the knife is still jammed in to. It's lodge in the skull fairly deep and it takes him putting his boot on the head and tugging twice before the knife slides out. 

Across the room Grimes' wife makes a pained sound, shielding her son's eyes.

Daryl ignores them, wiping the knife off on his pants as he walks. It's over quickly, a slice of each of their throats sprays Glenn with blood as the host bodies twitch and die, taking their demons with them.

"Thanks for the shower," Glenn mutters, dropping the bodies before wiping at his face with his sleeve. He teeters on his feet before bracing himself against the nearest desk, slowly sinking to the floor.

"What just happened here, wha-"

"Shut up," Daryl snaps, turning to point his still wet knife at Grimes. 

Grimes' face goes tight, but he backs off, hands up in a quiet surrender. Daryl's turns back, nudging at Glenn with his boot. Glenn bats him away half heartedly. 

"What the fuck, Little League? 'S just two demons, I've seen you take on more." It's as close to an apology as Daryl can bring himself to make, but Glenn seems to understand. His face loses most of its pinched look as he squints up at Daryl.

"Believe it or not, my life _doesn't_ revolve around _your_ problems. I was in the middle of something..." Glenn sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "..._unpleasant_ when you called." He looks drained, maybe even a little paler than normal.

"A fight? Or maybe it's spring training in the hellfire leagues?"

"You're a riot," Glenn says with the hints of a smirk.

"Ya never know, maybe with a little luck and black magic the Braves wil-"

Glenn's head snaps up, his eyes human and warm. Daryl curses himself.

"You looked me up," Glenn murmurs in disbelief. "You looked me up, didn't you?"

Daryl turns and busies himself with checking the salt lines, unwilling to risk the effects of post-fight adrenaline being misinterpreted as a blush. "I was bored." 

"Liar! What position did I play?"

"Fuck if I know," Daryl's internet history and the collectors card in his wallet begs to differ, but Glenn doesn't need to know that. "I don't even care."

But Glenn just grins wider, looking less worn as he dusts his jeans off before standing shakily. "Liar, lair, pants o-"

"Excuse me, but _what the fuck_?!" 

Across the room Grimes is doing an admirable job holding his wife back.

"Lori! Can you jus-"

Lori shrugs him off, moving to point a shaking finger at Glenn. "What the fuck is going on here? Where the _hell_ did he come from?!" 

Glenn giggles at the unintentional pun and Daryl can't help but shake his head in exasperation.

"He's a demon," Daryl says before Glenn can attempt a joke and make things worse.

"A demon," Lori echoes, stepping back as Grimes steps forward. 

"You and Carl stay behind me," Grimes hisses grabbing for her arm and pulling her closer. 

She goes, eyes wide and blank as her hand strays to the gold cross around her neck. Her lips start moving and at Daryl's side Glenn stumbles back, looking like he was sucker punched. Black eyes reappear and Lori's eyes harden with confidence as her prayer gets louder.

"Hey! Knock that shit off!"

The whole Grimes family stills, Lori's prayer falling silent as Daryl sends a warning look towards Lori. 

"Unless any of y'all know how to kill a demon, I suggest you stop pissin' off o-"

"He's a demon, you dumb hick!" Lori shrieks, "Didn't you see his eyes!?"

"Listen here, Olive Oyl, he's-"

"Daryl," Glenn says firmly. "Um. Maybe you should stop fighting with her and _look._" 

Daryl sends a final glare towards Lori before turning to find Glenn staring up at the black smoke pressing insistently against the windows. 

"Somehow, you pissed off a Death Star full of demons. The traps and salt won't stop this many for very long." Glenn sighs, shaking his head. "Seriously, I should be impressed with you for pissing off this many demons at once, but then I remember what a pain in the ass you are, and it all kinda makes sense."

Daryl ignores him, looking around for broken salt lines or paint and finding none. "Wait - how'd you even manage t-"

Glenn gives him a humorless smile. "Until our deals up, I can follow anywhere you might wander too. Not even a devil's trap could keep me from your side."

Daryl's chest tightens. The injuries from this and previous battles pulse louder than normal under his skin, and for a second he feels older that he has any right to be. 

It takes a moment to work out why.

If they could somehow find a way to be alone right now; just him, Glenn, and the dead bodies, Daryl knows he'd be grabbing Glenn by his shirt and trying to kiss him. Trying to see if Glenn tastes like those stupid cherries he loves so much.

He knows Glenn would let him find out.

"What can we do?" 

Grimes voice is a welcome distraction. Daryl tears his eyes away from Glenn to watch Grimes as he still makes himself a human shield between Glenn and his family. He doesn't have the heart to tell Grimes that if Glenn wanted his family dead, they'd be dead.

"Do?" 

"Yes. You know how to stop these things, right? You can teach us, we'l-"

"A for effort, Clint Eastwood, but no, he can't teach you anything." Glenn rolls his shoulder, wincing. "Well, nothing that would do more than piss them and me off. I can slow them down a bit, and Daryl's knife can kill them, but that's all we got besides the salt lines and the Devil's Traps by the doors."

"There's nothing? No chance?"

Glenn shrugs glancing around only to set his sights on the speakers set up around the office. 

"Do those work?"

"Is now re-"

"Yes," Grimes cuts off his wife, motioning to a platform mic on one of the desks. 

"Are they only inside?"

"There a handful outside... I'm not sure how many. Is it important?"

Glenn looks over to Daryl, eyebrows raised. _Your call_, he doesn't say it.

It's a gamble. They'd lose Glenn, their best weapon, and they have no idea if it's only demons they're up against. On the other hand, none of them will survive the demons.

Daryl nods, and Glenn gives him a tight smile.

"Well, there's one thing we can try. But you'll be on your own if there's more than just demons out there. On the bright side, they're pissed enough they'll want to kill you and won't bother possessing you."

"That's good news?" Grimes asks incredulously.

Glenn shrugs. "Dude, I know you're late getting the memo, but there _isn't_ any good news. We're surrounded by an army of demons. Them not possessing you is the closest you'll get to a glass that's half full." Glenn turns to Daryl, leaning against a desk with a heavy sigh. "Please tell me your Latin is better than your brother's was."

Daryl nods. "You should go be-"

"I can't. They know I'm here now, if I leave they could hijack the route I took and use it to get in. But don't worry about it. I'll be back as soon as I can be." Glenn pauses, wincing. "It might take a while. This is going to be... unpleasant. You know, what with me killing their friends and being locked in hell-limbo with them until someone finds a way to bust us all out." 

"Don't bother if it take more than four days." 

Glenn's jaw tightens, and for a moment it feels like it's just them in the room. They're tired, worn down, and swimming in regrets and flirting with something that won't end well. A white picket fence was never in Daryl's cards, but spending his last four days with a demon is sounding better than a lifetime of nothing.

Before he can embarrass himself in front of Glenn or the watching eyes of the Grimes family, Daryl punches the red button on the mic and starts the familiar flow of Latin. 

He watches Glenn's eyes go black as he hisses, low and pained.

Then, Glenn's an explosion of black smoke, swirling up and away with all the others.

\---

  
Grimes, _call me Rick_, offers him his guest room. There's a silent agreement that it comes with the price of answers, but Daryl's too tired to anything but nod and follow him to the parking lot.

Bodies litter the ground around the tiny police station, some living, some dead. 

"What do we tell them?" Lori asks, watching as a young woman stands slowly, looking around her with confusion and fear written on her face. "Do they... remember?"

"Some will. The lucky ones won't."

Lori pales, clutching Carl to her. 

"We need to help them," Rick says with determined eyes. "We need to-"

"Tell people that demons possessed half a town then decided to up an' leave? You really think you'll keep that shiny badge of yours very long if you go to the news with that story?"

Rick bites at his lip and to their left, someone starts crying.

Rick’s face hardens, but he turns to Daryl with determination in his eyes. "Then what kind of story do you suggest?"

"Gas leak. LSD in the water." Daryl shrugs. "Don't really matter. They'll all believe it - it's better than the truth."

\---

  
A gas leak cover story and half a bottle of Rick's wedding bourbon later, it comes out. Rick's a good man, it's as plain as day to see and between his kindness, Daryl's impending death, and the bourbon, Daryl can't help himself.

After telling Rick the proper way to off a ghost Daryl tells him everything Rick is too polite to ask.

Well, not everything. Daryl's never been drunk enough for that in his whole life, be he covers the important parts.

"I got three days 'till I die. When I go Glenn gets to take my soul."

Rick nods like this isn't something completely insane. It's the same nod he used when Daryl told him how to spot a shapeshifter and how to ward against leprechauns.

"That's..." Rick nods to himself before taking another drink. "Is that normal?"

Daryl shrugs, scratching at the back of his neck. "I sold my soul to him, so, yeah. It's part of the contract."

"A contract?"

"He's a crossroads demon, I summoned him, we agreed to the terms, and that was that."

"You had terms," Rick nods again, brow furrowed. "Did you... need a lawyer? A hell lawyer?"

"Naw, just a verbal agreement and a kiss. It's how it works."

Rick stares at him. Eyes wide, but lacking judgement. "You sold your soul and sealed it with a kiss." He shakes his head, drinking deeply. "I learn something everyday."

"Yeah. I wouldn't recommend sellin' your soul though."

Rick looks him over, a cop's eyes inventorying everything about him and coming up with more questions. "What'd you get?"

"My brother," Daryl refills his own glass and then Rick's. "He died, so I brought him back."

For a second Daryl expects some sort of pat on that back, maybe a platitude or two. But none comes.

"Where is he? Why isn't he with you if you're dying so soon?"

"We didn't part on good terms."

"Any other family?"

"Dead."

"Friends?" 

Daryl hesitates, looking down at the amber liquid in his glass. It holds no answers, but maybe a little courage. "I banished him with the other demons."

"Glenn," Rick rolls his name around in his mouth. "Glenn the demon. Not what I pictured a demon being called," he shrugs. "So, he owns your soul?"

Daryl nods and Rick hums quietly to himself. "I got the impression you two were..." He trails off, red staining his cheeks. "Is it part of the contract too?"

"Is what?"

"Your... _relationship._"

Daryl ends up choking on his drink, Rick wobbling over to pound at his back. 

When the coughing stops and his lungs stop burning he pins Rick with a look. 

"We ain't in a relationship."

"Seems odd that he'd come when you call like that. Get himself..." Rick waves a hand in the air vaguely. "You know, with the Latin. It seemed to hurt them. And you kissed. Maybe selling your soul is kinkier than you let on. Up until today I wasn't aware people had a soul, much less that they could sell it, so forgive me if I'm not sure what to think about all this." Rick slides back into his seat with a sigh. "Besides, it's not my place to call you an idiot, so I won't. Do you know how you die?"

"Badly." 

"Can he... do anything?"

Daryl laughs, because it's better than screaming. Rick watches him with the same look Dale gives him sometimes. 

"He's done enough. I could kill him and end the contract, but..." Daryl shrugs.

"You won't," Rick huffs, smiling a little. "I gotta admit, you hunters seem to lead interesting lives."

"Interesting, but short."

The mood sobers, Rick carefully picking up the cork to the bottle, before glancing up at Daryl. "I know it doesn't mean much, but I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Me too."

\---

  
The bourbon is long gone and they're nursing water bottles when there's a sudden crash behind them. Rick's on his feet in an instant. Glenn is looking up at them from the floor, sitting on the remains of a broken side table. He's bruised, bloody, and most importantly, _alive_.

Rick stills, but Daryl scrambles down to look him over while Glenn swats his hands away weakly.

"They..." Glenn licks his lips twice, eyes flickering between black and human.

"Are they following you?" Rick asks brusquely.

Glenn shakes his head, eyes locked on Daryl's. Daryl's hand comes up, brushing against the side of Glenn's face only managing to smearing some blood and soot around his cheek. Glenn sighs, leaning into the touch.

"You okay there, Little League?"

"They have plans," Glenn slurs, eyes losing focus before switching to black before closing.

"Plans?" 

Daryl shakes him gently when it takes too long to get an answer. Glenn whines, but nods.

"Big plans. _Bad_ plans." Glenn reaches out, hand curling over Daryl's wrist. "I tried to stop it-"

"To stop what?"

Glenn's head falls back with a soft pained sound.

"Glenn?" he shakes him again, then shakes harder until Glenn curses, blinking up at him in confusion.

"Wha-?"

"What. Plans."

"Don't break," Glenn whispers fervently, his hand tightening on Daryl's wrist. "Don't break."

"Break what?" He's almost yelling, but he can't bring himself to care. In the corner of his eye he catches the movement of Lori entering the room and running straight to Rick. Daryl ignores them.

"I'll find you, okay? I don't know... how long, but I'll find you. Don't break." Glenn's eyes slip closed and they don't open again no matter how hard Daryl shakes.

Strong hands cover his over Glenn's shoulder, and Daryl looks up to find Rick swaying slightly from drink as he looms over them.

"Stop," His voice is careful, the tone people use when talking an armed man down. "He's..." Rick nods towards Glenn, and Daryl follows his gaze. "See his chest? It's rising and falling. He's still breathing."

It takes several tries, but Daryl uncurls his fists from the fabric of Glenn's shirt and balling them into fists on his lap. 

Rick gives him a hesitant smile, one hand moving to squeeze at the back of his neck. Daryl closes his eyes, leaning into the touch and pretending his face isn't wet.

"'M just drunk," Daryl insists. "And about ta die."

Rick nods, pulling him to the side into an awkward hug where his head is resting on Rick's shoulder while he surrounds Daryl with his arms and his meaningless soothing sounds.

\---

  
Rick carries Glenn and leads Daryl to the guest room. He deposits Glenn carefully on the bed before observing Daryl pacing in the corner of the room.

"Can I get you anything?"

Daryl ignores him and keeps pacing, and after a while Rick gets the message and leaves.

It takes a while, but Daryl makes his way to the bed. He lays on his side at the edge of the mattress, facing away from Glenn. 

He's got three days left to live, but he's managed to get Glenn in his bed.

In the dark Daryl laughs. Quietly, and maybe a little hysterically.

\---

  
In the morning Glenn is gone and Daryl pretends that doesn't hurt more than the time Merle forgot him in a library in South Dakota.

Daryl gets in his truck and leaves before Rick and his family wake up. He doesn't leave a note, but he does leave his dad's journal on the guest bed. 

Rick'll have questions, and maybe the journal can give him some answers.

Two states over he finally takes one of Dale's increasingly frequent calls.

He listens, but doesn't speak, and after a while Dale gives up and talks enough for both of them. 

He tells Daryl stories about his mother he'd heard from his pa and stories from when Dale used to babysit him. Dale quotes Faulkner at him, doesn't mention Merle at all, and he calls Daryl _son_. He tells him that he's turned into a good man - one Dale's proud of. 

"I'd like to see you, son," Dale says carefully. "If you aren't too busy."

Daryl hangs up before he can agree.

\---

  
There are hellhounds, just like Glenn said. Scary fuckers that make every instinct in Daryl scream to _run._

He doesn't. He stands his ground, shooting until the barrels of his double barrel are too hot for him to crack open. He switches to his 1911, but he gets less than four shots into them before he's on his back and being torn to shreds.

Daryl dies, and Glenn was right. It only gets worse from there.

**Author's Note:**

> Was previously posted, then taken down. Now it's back up. Beware the errors and typos, I suspect the files I found on my old harddrive are the pre-beta versions.  
Please don't steal any of my silly stories and change some names around and then try to sell them as books on Amazon or I'm gonna have to take everything down again.


End file.
